


A Matter Of Taste

by self_destructive_detective



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, but mainly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/self_destructive_detective/pseuds/self_destructive_detective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or The Five Times John Watson Didn't Like What He Tasted and One Time He Definitely Did</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. Tea for Two

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've ever ran with an idea and scribbled it down. I think it's fitting that it's Johnlock :3  
> Please review or comment or offer constructive criticism, and know that if you do I will love you forever and send hugs through computer screens to you.  
> Disclaimer: I have a measly mind, one unable of producing characters as truly amazing as Sir Conan Doyle did, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are his and his completely. I'm sure he is rolling in his grave at the thought of a peasant like me placing his characters, including one he didn't even like, into situations he never even dreamed of.  
> 

John's mouth spread in a small smile of gratitude as Sherlock passed him a steaming mug of tea. The smile was a means of thanks, but also a way of masking the shock. John could count on one hand the amount of times Sherlock had deigned to heave himself up from the saggy couch to fill the kettle and prepare tea. John still remembers the first time. 

    John knew exactly how Sherlock took his tea. Strong, steeped for three or four minutes. Milky, and with two level spoons of sugar, one added before the milk and one after. It was a bit of a fussy procedure, but John would never make it any other way for the consulting detective, because he loved the minute smile that would cross Sherlock's lips when he had swallowed the first sip. No such smile crossed his when Sherlock passed him the first cup of Sherlock-Tea he had ever tried. Sherlock had obviously decided that everyone drank their tea like him, and John nearly spat the sugary liquid back into the cup, but forced it past his teeth and down his throat. He coughed a few times, and gently placed the tea cup down on the messy coffee table. He turned on the couch, to remind Sherlock that he hasn't taken extra sugar in anything since before he had been deployed to Afghanistan but the words halted in his throat. Sherlock was blowing on his tea, his perfect lips squeezed together into a pink heart shape. Johns own heart softened at the sight. He gently nudged Sherlock, and then looked pointedly at the tea. He said with a little smile, "Until you learn how I take it, I think I'll keep charge of the tea making duties, Sherlock. But thank you." Sherlock huffed as John poured the tea down the drain, the silver of the kitchen sink covered in swirly, beige-brown patterns, but his eyes appeared apologetic when John returned to the sitting room. Nothing was said between them, the only noises were the gentle whoosh of the refilled kettle, and the little gulps of Sherlock's throat as he downed the tea. 

 


	2. 2. Paper Plate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this is chapter two and I apologise in advance for my skills relating to Sherlock's deductions. They're not even deductions, they're.... ramblings. Sorry, probably not very in character.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own these babies but boy, I wish I did.

John could hardly believe it, but he was actually enjoying the case they were currently involved in. Perhaps because Sherlock was truly in his element, shooting off deductions at speeds faster than light, his coat whirling behind him like black wings. It was almost magical to watch, and John could pretty much hear Sherlock snorting inside his head as John described him as "magical". Another reason he was enjoying it was because, each and every night for the past week and a half, Sherlock had hurried him into his coat and out the door to a waiting taxi, before they were whisked off to another Indian restaurant. Their latest case involved the murder of food critic, and the room in which he had been killed (a butchers knife to the chest, and a bruise to the skull which Sherlock suspected had been delivered by a large frying pan) had been filled with a heavy, spicy aroma. John was proud that he could tell Sherlock that the smell was definitely a lamb Rogan Josh. His breath caught in his throat when Sherlock turned to him, his face a picture of awe and happiness, a wide grin splitting between his ridiculous cheekbones.

    That had been last week. Now they were simply trying to find the right chef. John thought he would tire of eating Rogan Josh eleven nights in a row but he usually wasn't focusing on the meal. He smiled to himself for eleven nights as Sherlock ate a massive plate of curry, to the last spoonful. He was sure he had never been so well fed.  John watched the twelfth currie’s first spoon slip between plump lips, as he reached to pick up his own cutlery. He plonked the spoon into the flavoursome sauce before lifting it to his own lips. He blew the steam away from the thick sauce and he then it disappeared in to his mouth.

      John’s mouth settled into a flat, disgusted line as he swallowed the food reluctantly. He quickly swallowed several gulps of water, before raising hishead to face Sherlock. "Sherlock..." He started. "John," he answered. "It tastes like paper." John chuckled,"I'll trust you know that from experience?" "Of course, John," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "I never guess." Sherlock dropped his empty spoon to the table with a loud noise. "Well John, I hope you enjoyed our Rogan Josh period, but I think it's time to close this case." His hands flew up to steeple beneath his chin and he closed his eyes for a few minutes. He opened his eyes and he spoke. "This curry has had the strongest aroma of all we have tasted, as I'm sure you'll agree, but the taste does not live up to it in the slightest. During the investigation of the body and the crime scene, you know that we found the murder weapon, hidden badly beneath one of the floorboards. I brought the knife to the lab-" his words halted as John raised an eyebrow in question. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine I stole the knife but Lestrade was off duty and Anderson was in charge! I could hardly ask him for it?" John smiled at Sherlock, and the corners of the detective’s mouth turned up in a nearly invisible smile. He continued "so I tested the handle of the knife for DNA, but what I found was much more helpful. Remnants of a rare spice, available in only three tiny villages in the west of India. The spice gives off a truly amazing aroma, but has no effect on the taste buds. So, our killer chef used the spice in the dish to impress the critics, but it did nothing to mask the lifeless taste of this,"-his eyes dropped to the dishes in front of both of them-"slop. So the head judge, the victim, gave him a low score. In revenge, the chef killed him before the results of the curry competition were published anywhere. A bit of an overreaction, I suspect either past run ins with the same critic, or mental illness. Anyway, There were one hundred entrants, but with the help of your fantastic nose-" John really hoped Sherlock didn't see the tip of his ears turn beet root red-" we narrowed that down to fifteen chefs who prepared Rogan Josh for the competition. With such a strong aroma, but flavourless sauce, I think we can safely narrow it down further, to one. Wouldn't you agree John?" Sherlock smiled his mission-accomplished smile and the joy of a successful end to another case was already seeping into his eyes as he rapidly typed out a message to Lestrade.  Without looking up Sherlock added, "Call the waiter. I'm not paying for this. We'll get take away instead." John smiled at the crown of the detectives bowed head, before sticking his hand in the air to catch the attention of a waiter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note! Some anime fans may recognise the idea of a special spice with a strong aroma from Kuroshitsuji, so yes I will claim to having borrowed a teensy-weensy bit.


	3. 3. Slips Down the Throat Like A Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have read this far...just know... I love you and really appreciate it, little buddy.  
> Disclaimer: Sherlock and John are not mine.... yet.
> 
> p.s. I apologise again for Sherlock, his deductions aren't written very well methinks.

John laughed loudly as one of his rugby mates cracked an old joke that they had shared for the first time over ten years ago. The joke was far from dead though, it always roused a crinkly eyed smile from the army doctor, and depending on how drunk he was, sometimes tears of mirth would squeeze past the crinkles. He was just regaining his breath as the bargirl tapped his shoulder and passed him another pint (his sixth?his seventh?). He looked up to thank the bargirl, and noticed it was someone new to his last several drinks. It's late, it must be the beginning of another shift he thought, so he took no heed of the change in employees. He took a long, large gulp of his drink. That's strange, he thought, face scrunched in disgust, that's a weird aftertaste. These were John's last thoughts before he promptly passed out. 

 

  John stirred in his sleep, his ears recognising a steady beeping noise before his eyes were open to register what exactly was emitting the irritating sound. If he listened harder he could hear the gentle whirr of machinery and somebody tapping a touch-screen phone. Past the room he was in, he could only just hear other people talking and the clicking of heels passing the door. He opened his eyes groggily, and turned his head slightly to see Sherlock squished into a small, metal chair texting someone on his phone ( this accounted for the tapping noise). John noticed white walls behind him and a the smell of antiseptic, leading him to believe he was in.... Oh no. He groaned lightly. The beeping and the whirring made sense, as he turned his head further around to see the heart monitor beside the head of the ugly, metal hospital bed. Sherlock finished his text and sent it, before looking up into Johns tired blue eyes. John didn't  even bother to open his mouth and ask, just waits for Sherlock to start speaking. "John." He begins with a sigh,"It's nice to see you conscious and not foaming at the mouth." He smiled a small tight smile. " Your last memory was probably at some point in the bar, yes?" John nodded minutely. He noticed his throat was bone dry, so he reached out for the glass if water on the small bedside table. An IV attached to his arm restrained him from reaching that far. Sherlock passed him the glass, and waited for John to finish drinking before he continued his speech. The glass had hardly clinked against the metal of the table before his words started tumbling out at top speed. "While you were in the bar, someone spiked your last drink with a large amount of poison. This lead to you passing out immediately. One of your friends called an ambulance, but fortunately, " Sherlock grimaced through the name, "Mycroft was two steps ahead, noticing something abnormal through CCTV and there was already an ambulance on the way"

 The grimace dropped, and his face softened. He spoke the next words in a near whisper. "If the ambulance had been five minutes later, you wouldn't have survived." His bright eyes locked with John's and John couldn't make out the emotion hidden behind the green and blue and grey mix. Sherlock glanced away before he continued. "We've arrested the culprit, after an investigation. After recognising how badly you had been poisoned they had to change one third of the blood in your body with new blood. I, uh,  borrowed some of the poisoned blood for testing in the lab and found it contained high levels of rattlesnake poison." For the first time since waking, John spoke. Well, squawked. "Rattle snake poison??" Sherlock sighed, "Yes, John, now stop parroting. I studied the rattlesnake poison further, and concluded it had been drawn from a fifteen year old rattlesnake in and around last Monday. Now John, please cast your mind back. Where were we last Monday?" John was silent for a moment, before answering tentatively, "at the circus. For the case."

Sherlock pulled his knees up into the chair and clasped them to his chest. "Yes John the circus. The circus where four of the trapeze artists had all died. Well had been killed. The artists were found, two days after the other, hanging from the trapeze wire, from nooses made of their own costumes. But as you said so yourself, no marks were left by the strangling costumes, meaning they weren't tight enough to block the windpipe. They were dead before they were hanged. I carried out similar tests on this blood last week as I did in your blood yesterday. This blood also contained poison, but not of a snake. The poison was extracted from an Italian plant called Belladonna. You will remember us checking the eyes of the artists to confirm they hadn't been strangled, we found the pupils of one of the men blown wide as if excited or aroused. After researching the belladonna plant, I found that in the past women would drop belladonna extract into their eyes to widen their pupils and make them appear more seductive. Because this was not similar in all of the trapeze artists, I deduce that the murderer was in a rush or feared being caught while carrying out that particular murder, and somehow managed to get the belladonna in his eyes. Clumsy really. I mean how can you get it in hi-" John coughed. He didn't care about the clumsiness. He just wanted to know why he had been poisoned, and by whom.  Sherlock picked this up from his eyes and began again.  "When we went backstage after the show, we were greeted by  Beatriz, the snake lady of the circus. She took a shine to you, naturally, and offered to take us on a tour of the tents. She wanted to seem kind, but the shift in her pulse when you let slip that we were investigating the murders suggested she wanted us away from her quarters. I told her I needed to make a call, but actually I slipped into the trailer area, directly beside the tent. Beatriz was famous for dealing with the biggest, most dangerous snakes from all over the world but when I broke into her trailer-" John had given up on rolling his eyes or sighing and just kept avidly listening-" there was a tank of about ten rattlesnakes, kept in a bigger, more luxurious tank than the circus snakes, suggesting that they are pets of hers. On further inspection of her trailer I noticed a desk, covered in framed pictures of her and family and friends. A card could also be found on the desk, addressed to Bella, so she was using belladonna as a personal and ironic twist. My theory is that once we left she hurried back to her trailer, extracted poison from one of the snakes and followed us home, because she knew we were on the case and didn't want found out. She used rattlesnake poison because she wanted to make us think it was in no way related to the case and it was a freak accident. Of course she hadn't factored in that I would find her rattlesnakes, or that I would test your blood and confirm it was rattlesnake poison. So she hung around Baker Street waiting for one of us to leave so she could attack us and form a distraction from the case. However, it was really her downfall. We were together for all of three days, before you went out with your rugby mates.  She followed you to the bar, and schmoozed her way into a bar uniform. You were drunk enough not to recognise her, and she passed you the poisoned drink before escaping. I should nearly thank her but.....  " Sherlock faltered. "It was you she poisoned," was what he wanted to say but the words were sticky in his throat. He cleared his throat, a loud noise in the quiet room. "But its the end of a case, so its boring." The room fell silent, Sherlocks waterfall of words trickling to a finish. John went back over the speech and-"Wait, the poison was drawn last week? How long have I been out?" Sherlock said quietly after checking his watch, "three days and five hours. It was a lot of poison." He drew his knees in tighter to his purple clad chest and John swore his face was even paler than usual. He was pursing his lips, as if trying to bite something back, trying to make up his mind if he wanted to say the words he was thinking or not. Obviously he decided to speak, and the words tumbled out faster than even his deductions. "John, I'm sorry. If you hadn't been involved in the case, she wouldn't have targeted you and you wouldn't be in hospital and-" John reached towards Sherlock. He couldn't reach Sherlocks long, pale hand but Sherlock got the idea and placed his fingers in johns. "Sherlock," John said with a lopsided grin, "it's not your fault and I'll have you know that there's no one I'd rather be poisoned for." Sherlock let out a breath that John hadn't noticed he had taken and he gently squeezed the spidery fingers in his.  They smiled at one another, and then Sherlock launched back into how exactly he proved it was her, and John was feeling so much better. 

 


	4. 4. Taste of Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of random OCs appear....  
> I actually kinda like this chapter. a little bit anyway.  
> Disclaimer: Apart from OCs, I do not use my brain enough to produce as Sir AC Doyle did.

John and Sherlock were closer than they had ever been. Physically, anyway. They were squashed together against a cold, wet brick wall of one of London’s longest alleyways. One end entered onto a busy shopping street, filled with people, light blinding the eyes as it bounces off walls of windows into your eyes. The opposite end was dark and cold, with too many corners and not enough light. The walls finished and opened up into a factory yard, acres of Tarmac covered in huge freight trucks and silver grey factories. In one of these factories, the one nearest to the alley on fact, there was a man. This man was Simon Leonard and he was running a business, a trade. The trade was of people trafficking. The man would send out black clad workers to talk up pretty women in bars. Pretty women with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, a dolls figure and a tinkling laugh. For that is what was in demand. Well, in Asia anyway.  
It hadn't been difficult to find the factory, but John reminded himself that it was Sherlock Holmes he was working with and even the most difficult question or challenging task, weren't really difficult or challenging at all. Sherlock had made the link in record time, and sprinted out of the third crime scene, an idea lighting his glasz eyes. John had been picking up coffee for the Yarders at the time, keeping up his golden performance of "(Sort of) Employee of the Month." He had returned and when told his flat mate had disappeared in a flurry of expensive clothes and insults, he simply sighed, turned on his heel and headed back to 221B.  
John had pushed open the already ajar door, and stopped dead in his tracks. A skinny woman was sitting in one if the armchairs with something that looked like tinfoil forming a hat on her head. White blonde dye seeped out from beneath the aluminium. Her blue eyes caught John on an upward glance and she raised a pale hand and wiggled her fingers, her pink lips spreading over pearly teeth. John smiled back faintly. The crinkling and crackling of plastic bags drifted in from the kitchen and John wandered towards the open doors, before bumping his chin into a thin, shirt-clad chest. John shuffled back and looked up into Sherlock's face, before the face (and body) slipped past him towards the woman. John turned to see Sherlock plop into the armchair opposite her, before pulling an array of brushes, sponges and black Mac boxes from the bags. Sherlock pawed the boxes passing them from palm to palm, before looking up at John. "John, you've had much more experience with women than any of London’s bachelors, what colour of eyeshadow highlights blue eyes the best?" Johns jaw dropped. He was absolutely speechless. He swivelled on the heel of his shoe and stalked into the kitchen, quickly hitting the switch on the kettle. If he didn't have tea now he felt he might faint. This was just too weird, even after five years of Sherlock. John could hear the tapping of black Italian shoes stop on the kitchen tiles. He turned to face Sherlock, gripping the kitchen counter for support. He closed his eyes and cleared his throat. "Sherlock. Please....explain." His voice was low and level, but John could feel anger red and hot bubbling in the very pit of his stomach. He hated not knowing what was going on, and when it was to do with a case or dead body pieces on the fridge (or not actually dead bodies on the ground outside St.Barts), it was really irritating. But now there were live, attached female body pieces sitting in his house and he didn't know why. John opened his eyes and Sherlock opened his mouth to answer. "John. This is for the case. Her name is Alice. She's one of the homeless network. She used to be a model, before falling in with the drugs scene, blowing her career and all of her money. I'm dressing her up, making her look very appealing and I'm going to use her as bait for Leonard’s men to pick. I'm installing her with an earpiece and a mini-camera, so she can lead us directly to Leonard’s factory. I asked you about the eyeshadow because you have been on countless dates with many a made up woman, so I thought you would know. Okay?" Sherlock's calm voice filtered through the air towards John, seeming to trickle down his throat like ice to calm the hot anger in his belly. John sighed as the kettle whistled behind him. "Yeah, okay, fine. And uh, blue eyes.... Try light brown and bronze, they make blue eyes more noticeable." John huffed out a laugh. Sherlock looked up in surprise. "Funny? Why?" John smiled, nostalgia sparkling in his eyes. "I never really notice what make up my dates wear, but when we were kids, Harry gave me a make-over while I was asleep. I hated her for it, but while my mum was scrubbing the make-up from my face, she told me the brown eyeshadow made my eyes look like star sapphires." Sherlock and John shared a smile before John turned to make tea, and Sherlock turned to play make-up artist. 

Sherlock's plan had worked perfectly of course, Alice had been picked up by Simon Leonard's henchman and here they were at the grey warehouse, the only thing standing between them was a tall burly security guard, with muscles rippling where John didn't know muscles could ripple. John could shoot him, or at least fire a shot to distract him, but from behind the wall he had anything but a clean shot. He palmed the gun in his hand, his sweat on the handle catching the tiny amount of light the moon was shedding on the situation. Sherlock was peering over his shoulder, trying not to place any of his weight in John. The two men watched as an unmarked black car pulled up outside of the factory, and two men in black pulled the blonde woman from the car, one holding her feet encased in strappy silver heels, the other carrying her blonde head unceremoniously. Sherlock lowered his head to John’s ear and whispered softly, "Now." John edged out from behind the wall, steadied himself and fired a shot into the illuminated yard, causing the two henchman to drop the body; John winced as a blonde head met black tarmacadam. The three men turned to face down the alley but John and Sherlock were invisible in the dark. John tucked the gun into the small of his back and then together, they ran towards the three men, and before they knew it, there were fists flying and jaws cracking. John found himself in a headlock, with another henchman standing in front of him, revealing a knife in his hand. John's eyes widened and he felt adrenaline pulse through his veins. He elbowed the man choking him swiftly in the groin, and pushed forward from there to launch a kick into the other man’s stomach. The man choking him fell like a wet towel, but the man in front of him only doubled up in pain. He clutched at his stomach but his other arm shot out, knife in hand aiming for John’s neck. John was lucky to have reflexes as good as he did, and he pulled back enough for the man to miss his neck, but not far enough for him to miss John completely. John felt cold metal sink into his cheek, before the temperature changed again and warm, thick liquid started trickling down his face. He ignored the pain, and grabbed the man’s wrist, pulling the knife from the leather gloved hand and dropping it to the ground with a sharp, metallic sound. He recalled his military training and punched the man in all of his off-switches; throat, stomach(again), groin, knees. The man fell to the ground and John placed a foot on his chest, pushing him to the ground. His head hit the ground and John watched his eyes shut as he fell into unconsciousness. He turned quickly, just as the other man attempted to rise from the ground and John gripped his shoulders and pushed him down again, his head making a similar hollow sound to his colleague's. John turned to see another man at Sherlock's feet. Sherlock was panting, and his scarf was much looser around his neck, suggesting the man had targeted his throat. John instantly went into Dr.Watson mode, his hands flitting over Sherlock's face and shoulders. "Are you okay? What did he do? Your breathing sounds okay but..." Sherlock's sigh brought him to a stop. "John, John, John. I am fine. Well, I feel a lot better than you look anyway." John had no idea what Sherlock was talking about, had completely forgotten about the deep gash in his face, until he opened his mouth to answer and warm liquid seeped into his mouth. The taste of metal, copper exactly, washed over his teeth and tongue. He quickly spat it out, before it reached his gag reflex. He hated blood; the way it seeped through cloth slowly, the way it shone under an Afghanistan sun, the dull colour dark against gold sand, the taste as it sprayed from around a bullet. Too many memories of his were cloaked in a red veil, but the last time he had tasted blood it had nearly been enough to make him faint. He watched the red, bubbled with saliva, splat against the Tarmac, and pulled the brown sleeve of his jacket over his hand and raised it to his face to wipe away some of the blood. "Stitches again, so." He tried to smile, but his cheek ached. "What's that? The fourth time this month?"


	5. 5. Drink Your (Bad) Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two wee chapters left!! I beg of you, keep reading!  
> Discaimer: The tall one and the short one aren't mine... It's unfortunate really.

John heard the phone drop to the ground with a plastic click-clack. He raised his hand toward the man on the roof, willing him to stay there, to wait for John to come up to him and whisper soft nothing's in his here and tell him how much he mattered and to tell him don't go, please, don't go. But it was for nothing. Sherlock looked to the sky and John swore he could see the glisten of tears on the high cheekbones. Sherlock jumped and John's scream was caught in his throat, he opened his mouth but couldn't force anything out. He watched the man fall, graceful even in plunging to his death. The body fell in what felt like painful slow motion to hard pavement beneath. John watched, unable to move, as the body hit the ground. He watched in amazement as the grey pavement of St Barts transformed into soft, swirling sand and allowed the body to fall with less impact or destruction. John ran to Sherlock, ready to hold him and tell him, after three years, how much he needed and loved him. He gripped the Blestaff clad shoulders and turned them around so John could look at Sherlock's perfect face. He was horrified to see the sleezy, sneering face of Jim Moriarty smirking up at him, all thin lips and bared teeth.  The teeth and lips parted as they formed words in his mocking tone," Silly pet. Did you mistake me for your master?" The smirk returned and he gestured upwards. St Barts reappeared and the desert dissipated. John looked up to the roof again to see Sherlock again. He jumped and John screamed. He tried to get up, get under Sherlock and break his fall but Moriarty gripped his arms, fingers squeezing his old bullet wound painfully. Moriarty cackled in his ear as they watched Sherlock fall. John screamed. 

   John woke with a start, his mouth still forming an "O" shape around the scream. He was panting, trying to regain control of his breathing. His fingers dug hard into the mattress, gripping it for support even though he was lying down. His breathing slowly evened out and he sat up, trying to shake the nightmare from his head.  As he sat up, beads of liquid cascaded over his cheeks. One pearly little sphere traced over his top lip and dropped into his mouth. The salty tang of fear and embarrassment met John's tongue. Fear, because the dream had scared him. Of course it had scared him. He had watched his best friend die while in the arms of the man who put him on that roof. And embarrassment.... John was embarrassed that after all this time, a year of dead Sherlock and a year of returned Sherlock, his own imagination could make him feel more pain than a lifetime in the battlefield. John thought the tears were just reminders of how much of a hold his thoughts had over him. John frowned around the taste and lifted a hand to wipe the silver tears from his chin. There was a soft knock and the door, and from behind the wood, a low baritone spoke out quietly,"John? May I come in?" John replied with a tentative "yes" and the door opened to reveal a sleep-softened Sherlock. 

     John felt bad. They had finished a case the evening before, and after five days of no sleep, he had to help Sherlock shove sleepy limbs into old grey pyjamas. He needed the sleep, and John had selfishly had a nightmare, leading to him screaming the detective into wakefulness.  "Sorry Sherlock, I must've woken you. It okay though, just a nightmare." Sherlock stepped further into the room and his eyes widened slightly. "John," he whispered. "John have you been crying?" John started to say something, but didn't manage to get it out, and he dropped his head, chin grazing chest. He didn't look up when the weight of another person caused the mattress to dip gently. Soft hands were placed on his bare shoulders, before one wriggled underneath his chin to lift his head. John looked at Sherlock and could see himself reflected in Sherlock's (green?blue?grey?silver?) eyes. He could even see the glistening tracks of tears on his own tanned cheeks. He blinked, clearing the image of himself from the eyes and instead focusing on the emotion in Sherlock's eyes. He looked down into John's eyes, his mouth a little unhappy line. His eyes seemed.... Apologetic? John was confused. Sherlock had nothing to be sorry about. Sherlock closed his eyes and John could here him swallow loudly. "John," Sherlock started shakily. "I just... I want you to know that I'm sorry that I jumped. I'm sorry that I put you through..... My death. I'm sorry I didn't tell you that it wasn't real. If.... If I could go back and prevent it from happening, I want you to know that I would." His fingers were shaking minutely under johns chin. John felt another tear trickle gently over his cheek. He looked away. He coughed to clear the lump forming in his throat before he spoke. "How did you know that the dream was about the f-f-" he cursed himself for sounding so weak, and scrunched his eyes closed, steeling himself. "The fall." Sherlock responded after a quiet minute. "Your eyes. They looked the same as when I first returned. You looked happy that I was alive, but you couldn't conceal the sadness you were feeling about the fact that I had betrayed you with my suicide." John opened his eyes and looked back at Sherlock. His usually hard, calculating eyes were completely soft and laced with worry. Sherlock continued,"Whenever I was younger, I always told my mother about my nightmares... Do you maybe... Do you want to talk about it?" John sat in stunned silence for a minute. He had never known the detective to be caring. It reminded him of his father. Before his father had left with the army, he would always scoop John up into his arms and console him through his tears. When the last tear had plopped from his chin, John and his father would sit on the couch and John would explain his nightmare. His mother mother would wake the two of them hours later, and reprimand them with a smile for falling asleep on the couch.  John decided maybe he wouldn't cry into Sherlock's shoulder, but he opened his mouth and explained his horrible nightmare occurrences. As he spoke, Sherlock's fingers migrated from beneath his chin to his shoulder, to gently squeeze comfort through his body.  John licked his lips nervously, his mouth dry from talking. He looked down at his knees. He didn't want to look into Sherlock's eyes; he was afraid he might might have blown his cover in just how much he cared about Sherlock. The room was quiet apart from their breathing and Londons morning chorus from outside the window; passing cars, sirens and wind passing through trees. Suddenly, another noise breached the quiet; John gasped as Sherlock's arms surrounded his body and pushed him back down onto the bed. "Sher-!" He squeaked. Sherlock had his arms around John's waist, and had tucked John's silver blonde head under his pointy chin. His throat vibrated against John's cheek as he spoke. "Shhh, John. It's okay. Go back to sleep." John stuttered, " But-". Sherlock whispered, "if you're holding me I can't fall." Johns eyes widened, but then he smiled. He wriggled closer to Sherlock and closed his eyes. John and Sherlock slept soundly until Lestrade came shouting through the flat at three O'clock the next afternoon. They jumped up from the bed, and the three men stood blushing in the dark bedroom. 

 


	6. +1. Taste of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, and it took me about three million hours to write!  
> Please enjoy.  
> Disclaimer: Sherlock is the sole property of Sir Conan Doyle, as the Krusty Krab secret formula is the sole property of the Krusty Krab.

John watched as Sherlock smirked, the curve of his lips matching the curve of the spoon in his long fingered hand. The silver curve disappeared again, as Sherlock slowly sunk the spoon into the top layer of the chocolate cake. He hadn't a particularly sweet tooth, but John knew how partial he was to Angelos chocolate mousse layer cake. Sherlock wriggled his wrist, the spoon deepening into the cake. He then lifted it to his lips, heaped with the sugary substance. The silver and brown disappeared past his rosebud pink lips, and John could hear the man make a nearly inaudible groan of pleasure. He pulled the spoon out again with a gentle pop, and John mashed his lips together in a stern line as his eyes zeroed in on a tiny crumb of the sponge base, cradled in the corner of Sherlock's mouth. Johns hands itched, his fingers wanting to pick the crumb from its resting place. Well, mainly his fingers just wanted to touch Sherlock. To stroke his sculpted face. To feel the gentle warmth underneath the alabaster skin. To trace the Cupids Bow with his- John was glad this dark corner of Angelos was only lit by a small candle, it made him feel as though Sherlock might not notice the pink dusting his cheeks. He nervously sipped the Italian coffee that Angelo had prepared expertly, but the coffee was tasteless in his mouth. The liquid washed down his throat, but his mouth dried out again immediately when he looked over at Sherlock. The man was sucking the tip of one of his skeletal fingers, cleaning it of a tiny smear of chocolate.  John bit his lip, trying to hold back the aroused groan that was rumbling in his chest, threatening to escape. He tried to focus on the high pitched clinking noises that Sherlock's cutlery was making against the shiny white plate, but his mind was filled with Sherlock. Ever since the night when they had shared John's bed, a part of John's mind was always focused on his flat mate. And that little part threatened to take over, dictator style, when the two of them were alone. Technically in Angelos they weren't alone, but this dark corner on a quiet Thursday night was just as good.  The minute fraction of John's brain that wasn't filled with Sherlock was registering the fact that Sherlock was paying the bill, pulling his jacket from the back of the wooden chair. John shook his head, reaching for his wallet. He finally looked back at Sherlock. "How much was my half?" He kept his question short, and just as well, because the way Sherlock's midnight blue shirt was straining over his chest as he pulled on his coat would have left him speechless. 

 Sherlock smiled, "Nothing. It's fine, my treat." John was still fondling for his wallet. "No, Sherlock. I'll pay." Sherlock's arm shot out to catch John's  hand as it came out of his pocket, grip strong on his old leather wallet. "Please John. Let me treat you." Sherlock's innocent pleading eyes were staring into John's, and John forgot every English word he knew. "I.. Uh... Okay, thanks..." John struggled into his jacket and the two men exited the small restaurant, both waving a hand at Angelo, who smiled his toothy grin in thanks.  

       A bitter February wind blew them home, John's ears filled with the whistling of the gale and the sound of the flapping tails of Sherlock's long coat. He could feel Jack Frost's frigid fingers wrapping around his throat and tickling his ribs. His body jerked in a quick shiver. The pair shared no conversation until they reached 221B. Sherlock's hand plunged into the deep pockets of his Belstaff coat,  but he sighed as his gloved hands reappeared empty. "John, your key please." John pulled out the shiny silver implement and placed it in Sherlock's leather clad hand. The lock clicked and the two men shuffled into the small hall and pulled the door behind them. They climbed the stairs quietly, not wanting to wake Mrs.Hudson. John had told her to rest well after he diagnosed her with a bout of winter flu the other day. Sherlock pushed the door into their flat and removed his coat, placing his second skin on the coat stand behind the door. He unwrapped his soft blue scarf from around his long neck and John tried, really tried not to stare but it was as if his eyes were magnetically attracted to it. He blinked a few times before shedding his jacket and wandering towards the kitchen, his hands waiting to be filled by the familiar weight of the kettle. He topped up the water before hitting the switch at the wall. He reached up to the highest shelf for the mugs. He stretched as far as he could, before reluctantly lifting his heels, standing on the tip of his toes so he could grasp the ceramic handles of two mugs. He placed the mugs on the counter and pulled down on his jumper, righting it from where it had ridden up on his stomach when he had reached up to the cupboard. The kettle blew its final whistle, and John poured the streams of hot water over two tea bags, one resting in each mug. He pulled open one of the endless drawers, and picked up two teaspoons,trying to ignore the bread knife covered in dried blood, lurking in a dark corner of the drawer. John poked at the teabag in his cracked cream mug, stirring it into life. Long, golden brown arms unwrapped themselves and reached up to the surface of the water. He felt his face soften at the calming idea of tea. He whirled the spoon around the mug, dying all of the liquid the soft bronze colour, before removing the tea bag and dousing the brown with creamy white, milk and tea mixing and swirling into a pale colour. John quickly prepared Sherlock's tea and brought the two cups into the living room, the warmth of the mugs spreading through his hands and up his arms. He placed the two drinks on the messy coffee table. He could hear Sherlock rustling around his bedroom, and his muffled voice as he muttered his thoughts to the audience of himself. John sank into his armchair, the cushions squashing and conforming to his weight. He reached for his tea and brought the mug to his lips, waiting for the liquid happiness to hit his throat. But it didn't. John furrowed his brow, before taking another large gulp. He winced. The tea scorched his mouth, but the flavour of tea did not follow. John was truly puzzled. His dinner too had slipped down his throat with no effect on his taste buds, his coffee tasted as much like hot water as it did hot coffee. Maybe he had caught Mrs.Hudsons cold? Maybe his throat was sore? John toed off his shoes before padding into the kitchen. He opened the cupboard where the cereal was kept and pulled the boxes out. He reached into the furthest recesses of the dark cupboard and pulled out a metal box. John tried to keep the medicine box hidden from a certain ex-addict at all times. He knew Sherlock had completely turned away from the drugs, and was as clean as he'd ever been, but John had an overly cautious personality, what with two alcoholics in the family. He flipped the lid of the box open and peered in at the endless amount of different pills and sachets. There was every painkiller from under the sun, including some which weren't available anywhere except hospitals. John had decided that two men who looked death in the eye every couple of weeks, one of which had a strong aversion to hospitals, needed the painkillers as much as those bedridden in Barts. John filtered through the packets, lines and lines of tiny warnings and suggestions crossing his line of sight. He finally found the green packet of Lemsip and pulled it out if the box. John pulled out another mug, and emptied the sachets content into it. The lemon menthol smell tickled at his nose, and Johns childhood memories, plighted by poor immunity, came rushing back to him. He poured in hot water and the pastel yellow liquid filled the cup. John rooted around, looking for honey so he could sweeten the bitter citrus flavour. He swirled the shades of yellow together and lifted the drink to his lips and sipped tentatively. And subsequently sighed. No taste, just the warm sensation as the hot liquid pooled in his stomach. John felt like he might burst into tears. He wasn't upset about not tasting anything, surely of all the senses you could lose, taste wasn't the most detrimental. He was just frustrated as to how it had happened. John sighed his way into the living area, just as Sherlock sauntered in from his bedroom, silk dressing gown over his dress shirt and slacks. John slumped into his chair and watched Sherlock bend down to reach his cup of tea, trying not to openly gape at, ahem, the seat of his trousers. When Sherlock straightened up and walked over the coffee table to reach his seat on the couch, John dropped his gaze to the mug of tasteless liquid in his hands, chin hovering over the top button of his shirt. He could hear Sherlock sip at his tea before he placed it down on the table again. He looked up to see Sherlock glancing between the two mugs of tea on the table and the third mug in John's grip. Sherlock looked up into John's face. "John, what are you drinking?" John tried to answer but he had just noticed that the tiny crumb of dessert was still lingering beside Sherlock's lips. The words died in his throat, his eyes unable to divert from Sherlock's mouth.  John couldn't think, couldn't speak, could hardly breathe, his mind filled with Sherlock's mouth and that tiny morsel of chocolate. Given the choice, he wouldn't know which to taste first; Sherlock or the chocolate. 

"John!" Sherlock's voice filtered through his lust filled thoughts, and he looked up at Sherlock guiltily. Sherlock smiled and John swore he heard him mutter "Oh for God's sake." But he wasn't dwelling on it because Sherlock had jumped over the table again and was now millimetres away from Johns face. "John," Sherlock purred. "Kiss me." And so John did. 

 

John felt as though someone had switched the lights back on, and his mouth and taste buds did exactly as a person in a dark room for a prolonged period of time might do after returned to light, and tried to take everything in at once. Tried to recognise what they had missed. 

John tried to taste all of Sherlock, while his mind at the same time tried to register and file away each and every accent and flavour he was now savouring. He tasted like chocolate and red wine, but beneath that there was a taste that was truly Sherlock. It was soft and warm, if soft and warm had a taste. Like silk and velvet and clouds and gold and pure euphoria. John couldn't get enough, and his eager tongue swept across Sherlock's protruding bottom lip, and it was the key to knock down Sherlock's final door. The tall man in front of him let out a long low moan deep in his throat and John could feel Sherlock's knees shaking and buckling against his own. John reached his arms around the slim waist and pulled Sherlock into the chair with him, not once losing the others lips. John finally worked out what had happened. His mouth was bored of everything else, and it needed something new to taste, something fantastic, something necessary, something Sherlock. 

 And now he could taste everything. Sherlock pulled away, and John was not embarrassed by the keening noise he made in the absence of his favourite set of lips. Sherlock panted through his words, "John. Stop thinking. I need you not to think. I need you." And his wish was John's command. Every train of thought crashed to a halt as Sherlock's lips covered his again. Sherlock's hands migrated up John's neck, his smooth palms smoothing over John's scar-peppered neck. Johns left hand stroked over Sherlock's bony hip, the fingers of his right hand tangled in the curls dangling over the nape of Sherlock's neck, tangled like a fly in a spiders web. His thoughts of Sherlock were bleeding into one another, images of him filthy and debauched, blushing and calling John's name. John used these images as fuel and put as much passion into his kisses as his compact body could allow. It wasn't fruitless, if Sherlock's gasps and shallow breaths were anything to go by. Slowly the kisses became softer and more languid, simple touches of smiling lips and bumping of noses. 

The tiniest gentlest kiss ended the stream of passion, and the two men sat uncomfortably but comfortably, squashed against one another in John's armchair. Sherlock rested his head on John's soft, jumper-ed shoulder and slowly trailed his fingers up and down Johns neck. John simply smiled, regaining his breath and relishing the taste Sherlock had left in his mouth. "Y'know," the two flatmates(or friends? or lovers? or all of the above?) said in unison. They grinned and giggled, and John nodded, allowing to Sherlock to continue. Sherlock moved his hands up to trace johns lips. "Y'know John," he began again. "You are the most perfect thing I have ever tasted." John twisted his neck so that Sherlock could see his face, smiling and full of love. "Funny," started John. "That's exactly what I was going to say."

**Author's Note:**

> If you have read this far, I thank you a million times plus one.  
> I have other ideas floating about in my head, so if you enjoyed this please let me know cause it'll encourage to actually use my brain and write.  
> This was not beta'd, or britpicked for that matter, but there's a bit of British blood in my family, so I don't think it's too bad...


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